To My Wife
by MykEsprit
Summary: Draco admits to an obsession. A fluffy Dramione one-shot.


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.**

**A/N: A**** gift fic for the fabulous Bionically. I hope you like it! Written for GOGO fest, hosted by Dramione Fanfiction Writers. Happy birthday, DFW!**

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**To My Wife**

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There are many things to admire about Hermione.

To begin with, there is her dazzling, dizzying intellect. This, of course, has been extolled and commended at great length since Voldemort's demise. Deservedly so, but I won't get into it now. All I will admit is she is the most brilliant creature to walk the Earth, and that is that.

The thing that is almost as admired as her head is what sits on top of it—that ridiculous and glorious mass of curls. It has a personality of its own, much of it dependent on the dew point. I've taken to calling it "Steve."

Hermione has been less than amused.

Then there is her kindness. Her tenacity. Her infinite well of patience, as evidenced by nearly two decades of friendship with Potter and Weasley.

What no one ever talks about, though, is something I can now admit has been a bit of an obsession for years.

Her hands.

You see, when I first met her, I didn't...that is, she and I…

I wasn't what I am now.

And everything about her then, everything that still makes her brilliant today, well...I wasn't in the frame of mind to admire them. Went against everything I was supposed to be.

So I insulted her intelligence. I sneered at her courage and goodness and hair and all of it.

But, one night in Sixth Year, I saw it. As I sat there in the pitch-black hallway, leaning against Barnabas the Barmy and his clumsy troupe, feeling like a failure and a fraud...

And alone. Completely alone.

I wanted to sink into the shadows of that hallway.

Begged for the darkness to fold me in.

Through my blurred vision, I saw it—the soft glow of a Lumos. Illuminating nothing else, it seemed, aside from one small hand with ink-stained fingers.

And there was this warmth in the center of my chest, this feeling of hope, and it tugged, tugged, tugged towards that hand, and suddenly I knew that if I could just reach for it, just run towards the light and extend my fingers out for that little hand, everything would be all right.

I didn't, of course. Because I knew, when I saw the ink stains, to whom that hand belonged.

So, I ran away.

Every day after that, whenever her hand shot up in class, desperate to be called upon for answers—

When her fingers curled around her wand as she used magic without effort—

Or even something as mundane as wrapping around a mug of hot chocolate as bleary-eyed students stumbled in for breakfast in the Great Hall—

My eyes would be drawn to her hands, and here, right here below my sternum, I would still feel that kernel of hope.

It was nearly extinguished the following year. I won't get into that.

And I didn't see Hermione—nor her hands—for some time after. When the dust had settled, and everything was being squared away, I still didn't see her. I had heard she left the country in search of her parents. During my trial, they read a letter from her in support of my exoneration. A good thing, because Potter bungled up his testimony.

Not that I was ungrateful, Potter. But had it just been on your heroic shoulders, I'd have been wasting away in Azkaban.

Yes, I know you were there, too, Weasley. You're always just there.

Can I keep going now?

Anyway, I was beginning to think I was never going to see her. It wasn't until years later, I was walking down a busy street in London. The sun had just gone down, and the sky was that color of unpolished silver. The streetlamps had just turned on. I was walking to catch a bus—

Yes, Pansy, you heard that right. It was during the years I stayed in Muggle London, living among them, learning their ways. Now kindly pick up your jaw from the floor.

I was there in London, and so was Hermione. Standing under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, her hand poised in the air, hailing a taxi.

I sprinted to her.

As I got closer, she turned to me, and instead of surprise or shock or disgust—all valid reactions to seeing your former childhood nemesis barreling towards you—

She smiled. Like I was a friend coming home from a long journey.

"Hello," she said easily, as though she'd been saying hello to me every day.

"Hermione," I said. Like an exhale.

Her eyebrows lifted. The yellow streetlights were reflected in her eyes. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say my name before."

"Is it—do you not want me to—"

She waved her fingers dismissively. "I like it," she said. "Thank you. It's nice to see you again, Draco." She extended her right hand to me, holding it in the space between us.

I think I stared at it for a full minute. However long it was, it was enough that she was slowly lowering her hand, retracting this offering of a handshake, and probably thinking I was touched in the head, too.

I mumbled something along the lines of "No," or "Please don't," and I snatched her hand before it fell to her side. My fingers caught hers. I turned her hand over, and my fingertips slid over her palm.

"Hogwarts should have offered an etiquette class. I bet the Founders didn't realize they would also have to teach young wizards how to do a proper handshake," she said, smiling at me all the while. And doing nothing to stop me at the same time.

I cradled her hand in my left as I traced the grooves of her palm with my right. "I would have been the best in that class," I whispered.

"Full marks," she said, curling her fingers around mine.

My obsession with her hand flared, because I knew, then and there, that I never wanted to let go.

I wanted to hold her hand against my heart as I slept. To feel her fingers squeezing mine to wake me up. To have it with me at my side every day for the rest of my life.

A year later, when I asked for her hand, it was the most terrified I had ever been…

But we all know she said "yes," because here I am, and here you are. Listening to me drone on and on, when I'm sure you all want me to stop so you can get on with the party.

You already had to sit through our vows earlier, so I'll stop now.

Before you commence the dancing, I'd like to ask everyone to please raise your glass to Hermione. The woman who holds my heart in her hands. Whose hand now wears my ring.

To my wife.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews always make my day and are greatly appreciated!**


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